


Bound To Notice

by AgentBuzzkill



Series: Fic Requests [11]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-26 20:30:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2665376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentBuzzkill/pseuds/AgentBuzzkill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wash tries to control it. Honestly, he does, he swears he isn’t staring at Tucker on purpose. It’s just that sometimes his mind starts to wander and he just happens to be looking at Tucker when it does. It’s all just coincidence, he promises.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bound To Notice

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from Rubixburd on Tumblr: "So for a fic prompt, what about pretty much everybody noticing that Wash keeps giving tucker these stupid lovestruck puppy looks and maybe some idiot (Caboose) finds some need to bring it up while wash and tucker are arguing lol"

Wash tries to control it. Honestly, he does, he swears he isn’t staring at Tucker on purpose. It’s just that sometimes his mind starts to wander and he just happens to be looking at Tucker when it does. It’s all just coincidence, he promises.

He measures their relationship in glances. In the anticipation of touches that will never come and words they will never say. The potential is there, he knows he feels it. But they are on thin ice, the oddest chain of events and circumstances bringing them together and keeping them in the same place at the same time. He doesn’t want to overstep his boundaries, doesn’t want to take any of this for granted. So he stays silent. He doesn’t say anything when Tucker gives him a questioning glance as their conversations fade off. He doesn’t say too much, doesn’t reach out, doesn’t dare touch. 

He does look, though.

And of course he takes pains to never let himself stare when Tucker is paying attention. He resolutely looks anywhere else, only glances at Tucker when he absolutely has to, covers himself in an aura of detached authority to prevent himself from getting attached. And of course it doesn’t work, not really, not when he still looks up to watch Tucker leave the room, or keeps an eye on the way his muscles move underneath his tight t-shirts when he’s lounging around, or just helplessly stares whenever Tucker storms off after another round of smart-mouthing.

And of course he tries his hardest to hide it from Tucker, avoids talking to him outside of direct orders and refuses to meet his eyes. His answers to Tucker and short and monosyllabic, he tries to not be left alone with him, pushes down any kind of affectionate feelings because what good would those do? 

And of course someone was bound to notice the staring. He’s honestly shocked it took this long for someone to comment on it. He’d just been hoping it wouldn’t happen when Tucker was right fucking there.

"Tucker," he says tightly, arms crossed over his chest as he stares down at the napping soldier. "Get up."

"Fuck off, man," is the mumbled reply, and Wash responds with a harsh kick to one of Tucker’s knees. Tucker’s helmet is on the ground next to him, and Wash can see his face twist into an expression of pain.

"Ow!" the man howls, sitting up and clutching at his knee, "What the fuck was that for!?"

"For ignoring me," Wash answers, and Tucker just grumbles to himself as he stands. Wash certainly does not look at him as he does this. 

"What gives, man?" Tucker demands. "You’ve been treating me like shit lately. What did I do?"

Wash doesn’t answer, and Tucker gives his shoulder a shove. It’s enough to set something off in Wash, and suddenly he’s up close and towering over Tucker, their chests nearly touching, the tension between them thick enough to choke on. But before Wash can say anything, he hears a voice chime in behind him.

"Washingtub! Agent Washingtub! Why are you so close to Tucker?"

"Not now, Caboose," he yells, not looking away from Tucker.

"Is it because he is looking at you? Does that make you angry?"

"Caboose-"

"Because you only seem to be happy when he isn’t looking at you! You look at him a lot when he is not looking! And you-"

"Caboose!"

In his anger and desperation to silence Caboose, Wash turns and waves his hands desperately in front of him. Caboose, to his credit, stops walking towards them and stops talking.

"Shut the fuck up!" Wash yells for good measure, and it takes a few seconds for him to realize that Tucker heard all of that and is right behind him and is possibly either angry at him or laughing at him and Wash isn’t entirely sure which one is worse to think about. He doesn’t want to look, he desperately does not want to see whatever expression is on Tucker’s face. So instead of thinking, Wash takes the next best option.

He runs.

And he hides.

And as he sits on the floor of his room, breathing hard and trying to work out his thoughts, he thinks that if this had happened at an earlier point in his life he might be crying. But as it is he’s just trying to gather himself, trying to work through the excruciating mortification, the anticipation of rejection. He hopes Tucker is kind enough to let him down easily.

He certainly can’t fathom an instance in which Tucker would be completely okay with Wash staring at him every chance he gets. There’s never a time or place where Tucker would feel remotely comfortable being around Wash now, never an explanation that could smooth things over and get them back to their usual casual bickering. 

He hears footsteps approaching his room, hears someone enter and close the door behind them. “Not now, Caboose,” he says, because who else could it possibly be?

"Caboose says he’s sorry," Tucker replies, and Wash has to restrain himself from turning around. He lets Tucker come closer, lets him sit down next to him. He still isn’t wearing his helmet, but Wash is. 

"Can I take it off?" Tucker asks, and in his confusion Wash turns his head to look at him, sees Tucker’s hand outstretched towards his face.

"Your helmet," he clarifies, and Wash isn’t sure that makes him feel any better. But something in him wants Tucker to see his face, wants this interaction to be equal for them. And it’s not fair if Tucker can’t see his face. As much as it pains him to do so, Wash braces himself.

He realizes after a few seconds of silence that Tucker won’t do it unless he gets an answer, so Wash nods. Tucker closes the distance between him with his hands, grips the bottom edge of Wash’s helmet and pulls. It slips off easily enough. Tucker sets the helmet down, moves so that he’s in front of Wash on his knees. 

Wash blinks up at Tucker. He’s not sure what kind of face he’s making, but whatever it is it makes something in Tucker’s eyes grow soft and sad.

"Oh, Wash," he says, and Wash looks down at his hands, twined together in his lap. "Would you look at me?"

Wash does, reluctantly, and he sees Tucker smiling down at him softly.

"I thought you hated me," he admits, and Wash is quick to shake his head.

"No, of course not," Wash insists.

"Can you blame me?" Tucker says with a little laugh. "You stopped talking to me, would barely look at me. All signs pointed to dislike, dude."

Wash isn’t quite sure what to say to that. “I…I don’t hate you.”

Tucker laughs in earnest then, but some of the sadness is still there and Wash doesn’t want it to be there anymore. 

"Can I touch you?" Tucker asks, and Wash doesn’t hesitate this time before nodding.

Tucker cards his hands through Wash’s hair, pulls him close, and Wash thinks that this is the ultimate turning point. He’s flying straight for the sun, wings in danger of melting, heat threatening to engulf him, but if Tucker is his sun he thinks the burns might be worth it.

He closes the distance between them, feels Tucker’s lips against his, and the warmth that rushes through him is the greatest thing he’s ever known.


End file.
